There's only one phoenix (and it's not me)
by claudiapriscus
Summary: There's no rebirth waiting for you. Iron Man 3 Spoilers!


A/N: This is unabashed FEELINGS fic. I have no excuses.

* * *

You know, when you fall, that there is no rebirth waiting for you. You see it in his face, in the sick horror in his eyes after you reach out and miss, your life forfeit and all for the cost of a few deadly inches. It takes about four seconds to fall two hundred feet, but it's more than long enough.

There's no room for fear left in your heart. You already burned through a life time supply, and now the only thing left to you is bitter, biting injustice. You built your life on managing chaos, on control and strict planning, but this is how it's ending. No rescheduling. No _after_, no do-overs. And it's meaningless. It's not only unscheduled, it's utterly fucking pointless. You'd laugh if you had the breath for it, because you've figured out what you should have guessed: you're not the phoenix in this story, you're the _pyre_. Tony's greatest talent was never his genius but his resilience. He crashes and burns and rebuilds from the ashes, and you're fiercely glad, fiercely grateful for that. But now they'll be your ashes, your flames, and you deserved so much more. You've been Tony Stark's assistant and his babysitter and his boss and his lifeline, but the role of martyr and monument was never one you sought.

So you fall, and you plummet, and by the time the fire reaches up to greet you, you are defined only by your rage. And that's where it should end, that's where there should be nothing more than the waiting darkness of death, but that's where it doesn't. It seems that after a life time of being stood up, death has done the same. You hit bottom, and all you know is agony. Bones shatter and organs burst and flesh scorches away, but nothing ends. There's fire and there's pain and every nerve ending explodes into life, like a perverse firework finale playing out behind your eyes.

And that's where you stay, because anything else is impossible, should be impossible, but impossible no longer carries the surety it once did. The longer you remain still, the more you want to move, the more you think you can. You twitch your fingers, mildly surprised to find them still there, still responding, but you guess you should have known that, because they've done nothing but hurt since you hit the ground.

If you can feel, maybe you can move. You drag yourself forward and up on to your arms, and the movement inspires new agonies to gnaw their way into your bones. This was never in your life plan. You never wanted to be the person making these choices. When SHIELD had insisted on the basics of training, you had said no. You've always had a knack for numbers, and you know just how poor your odds would be if it ever came down to a fight. Besides, you've never been comfortable with violence, and the increased regularity with which you've been confronted with it has not changed that. But apparently becoming the new definition of _high profile target_ carries a cost, and the cost was two weeks of drills and training and interesting new bruises. _I'm not training you to fight,_ the instructor had said, after you'd protested for the fiftieth time. _I'm training you to win._ You hadn't said anything, but the skepticism must have shown on your face. _Hit them hard, _the instructor said, _hit them hard and fast before they ever know it's a fight. They won't be expecting it from you. And that's what you must exploit. _

You crawl forward, bare flesh burning against scorching steel. _Don't ever stop,_ says the instructor. The memory is so present you can almost hear her over the roar of the flames. _Don't hesitate. Keep moving._ You pull yourself up to your knees, wondering if dare to stand. Before you can try, something explodes next to you and tosses you back and down.

It hurts less than it should. Maybe that means death is coming for you after all, but the pain isn't receding as much as it's becoming brighter, becoming different. You're learning to ride it now, and this time when you get up, you get all the way to your feet.

And then you start to walk. Your feet blister and burn beneath you, but that doesn't matter anymore. You don't think you're going to ever have to worry about parties or footwear again. You're not getting out of this unscathed, but it's a price you're willing to pay. You've never been anything if not grimly practical, and it's been your motto and your credo and your guiding principle for as long as you can remember. You even killed a man once, and though you didn't sleep for a year, you never once regretted it. You may not be strong, but you've never been weak.

You make your way forward. You _keep moving_, step by burning step, ignoring the mad battle raging overhead. This is nothing less than the stuff of nightmares- _your _nightmares- flames rising up, buildings crashing down, endless explosions ever burning- but even nightmares have lost their hold on you. You're incandescent, fury burning up through your soul and shining through your fingertips. Mere combustion can't compete: there isn't a bomb that could outshine you now. Flames billow around you, like greedy fingers reaching, but you walk through them as if they were nothing. They are nothing. You are the master of chaos and they cannot compare.

You've spent your life being underestimated, from the first boss who asked you who'd helped you with your math, to the greasy, grinning power brokers who think you won't notice their fast-talking slights of hand. In the old days your friends used to ask you why you put up with the indignities and the travesties and every other thing that was just the cost of working for Tony Stark. Infatuation, they'd thought, long before any such thing ever crossed your mind. You never argued when they said he was impossible, and demanding, and endlessly self-absorbed. He left behind insane messes and created international incidents and expected you to fix it, just assumed that you were capable of plucking miracles from thin air. _That's why you should quit_, your friends used to say, completely missing the point. You've spent your life being underestimated: You've honed it and you've wielded it, but you've never ever cultivated it.

You remember Aldrich in your office, smiling like you couldn't see his teeth, so sure you'd be so easily dazzled, so easily persuaded. So sure you were nothing, just another gatekeeper, just another place holder, just the product of some cynical PR. He never really saw you, but he's going to see you now. You push past the edges of the smoke, and it's like waking. The pain washes over you and disappears like it was never there, but you do not forget. Your anger is honed to a point, but your mind is finally clear.

You step free, out into the cooler, damper air. You're not reborn. You're still burning, but you'll never be consumed. When you look up, Tony's standing there, his face telling a story you never wanted to hear. It doesn't matter now, doesn't matter if the world itself has gone insane. You will _fix this_, no matter what it takes, because that's who you are. That's what you do. You are the master of chaos and you'll never do any less than what is necessary.

For you are not a pawn, and you are not leverage, and you are not a weapon, and you are not a trophy. You are the fire and you are the flame, and you are not afraid.


End file.
